Coping Methods
by Miss-Statement
Summary: Rumors have surrounded Max Caulfield following the death of three students and the incarceration of a beloved photography teacher. No one but Max knows the whole story, which means that no one but Max can give answers to the questions Victoria has. Maybe in time they can both recover from their losses. For now, all they can do is cope. (AU, rating may change)
1. Chapter 1

"Alright then, Max. That'll be about it."

I sat there, trying not to fidget too much in my chair. I knew that the doctors here would analyze my every movement and take it as something it's not. Or maybe, for something it is. There was this unfiltered feeling of vulnerability flowing through me now. This doctor, Rebecca as she'd gently introduced herself, knew some of the darkest parts of me. Things that no one else knows. She knows my issues. She knows how messed up I am.

Dog, no one knows how messed up I am.

It's very difficult trying not to move. My right arm reaches up to grasp onto my left, nervously. I tap my foot on the floor.

Rebecca scribbles something on her little clipboard, then peers at the paper there carefully. She sets her pen down and then looks up at me. Her movements were slow and deliberate. It was clear that she was trying to make me comfortable. Regardless, all I feel is tense.

"Based on what we talked about here today, I think you have PTSD and a depressive disorder. What you described about your sleep, the nightmares you have, the breathlessness you feel... It sounds a lot like a panic attack." She's watching me like she's expecting something. What does she think I'll do? How am I supposed to react? I'm just sitting here, waiting to hear the verdict. "Then again, this was just the first appointment. We typically have a little 'get to know you period' of about three or so appointments. I'd like to see you here again, so I'm making the next appointment for Friday the thirteenth."

That's two weeks from now.

"Would you rather have a morning or afternoon appointment?"

I shrug at first, unsure about which time would be better. She waits patiently for my answer and I realize she's not going to decide for me. "Morning," I answer quietly. Better just get it over with.

Rebecca nods her head and writes on her paper again, "Ten in the morning it is." She rips the corner of the paper off and hands it to me. It has the health services number, her name, and the date of the next appointment written on it.

She leads me out of her office and into the waiting area, where I see my dad sitting with a book resting on his lap. There's a smile from Rebecca as she says, "I'll see you on the thirteenth."

* * *

Dad came all the way up from Seattle to give me a ride today.

I didn't want to go.

I knew I needed to.

I knew if I asked him to give me a ride, he wouldn't ask questions. He'd show up, drop me off, wait for me, then bring me back to the dorm. He's supportive in that silent, trusting way.

I'm silent in that untrusting way.

Guess I'm more like mom.

* * *

When I get back to the dorms, I walk to my room alone. People tend to give me a wide girth nowadays. Can you blame them? They don't know what really happened. They don't want to know, and I don't want to say. Rumors escalate quite a bit. I don't care. There isn't a lot that fazes me anymore. It doesn't matter.

It's just as I reach the door to my room that Victoria walks out of hers. Our eyes lock and for a moment we just stare at each other. Neither of us knows what to make of the other anymore. It's because of me that her half-brother was arrested. It's because of her half-brother that I was-

No.

Don't go back to that dark place.

My eyes flit away. I can't match hers for long. Not anymore.

 _I'm sorry, Victoria. We used to be equals. Now I'm guilty and naive, and so very foolish._

 _It was all my fault._

I open the door, walk into my room, and I don't look back.

I'm never going to look back again.

* * *

 **A.N.**

I will be giving no explanation for this fic. Thank you for reading. ^^


	2. Chapter 2

Ever since those nights from hell, I haven't been sleeping. It's rough going. Often I wake up at the slightest sounds or lights, adrenaline pumping and immediately aware of everything going on around me. I have the dreams to contend with when I do sleep. The nightmares. Shadows, shots, fire, needles, blood... It gets as far as a flash from a camera usually before I wake up. The dreams are never the same, visually, but they all have the same meaning. Not to mention, he's always in them.

Tonight wasn't unlike any other. I woke up, heart pounding, blood racing, eyes darting about rapidly as I tried to catch my breath. Calming myself tonight was easy. It's usually not.

I'm not going to be able to fall back asleep again, I know. The clock on my phone tells me it's about four a.m. That's a lot of sleep I'm about to miss.

I haul myself out of bed, throw on some sneakers and a sweater half-heartedly, then make my way out of my room with shoelaces trailing behind me. Time for some late night rootbeer.

The dorm is quiet and dark. Everyone's sleeping. Not that I blame them. It is a little late at night. About a month ago, if I had this problem, I would've texted Chloe. She always knew just how to keep my mind occupied.

Too bad she's no longer here.

* * *

 _"Look... out..."_

 _Bang._

* * *

Root beer. Right, I'm going to get root beer. My feet pitter patter across the floor with each step I take. It's easy for my eyes to adjust to how dark it is. There's a vending machine in the lobby downstairs. It takes cash or, as I'm going to do, a Blackwell Academy student I.D. When it's late at night and I can't sleep, and I'm really thirsty, root beers for some strange reason always help. The walk there is uneventful. Right now I'm looking at the vending machine, searching each haphazardly stacked row of goods to see where the root beer is. Towards the top. Row C, 4.

It's only a couple of feet but I know it's going to be a little shaken up once it drops. Rootbeer is typically a highly carbonated beverage.

I swipe my I.D. and then press the necessary buttons.

As the can falls, I can't help but think of Chloe.

* * *

 _Release the kra-can!_

 _"Take it easy on the door, Chloe. Let's try this instead..._ _Boom! Literally."_

 _"Yes! Time to blow shit up!"_

 _"If you'll light the candle...?"_

 _"This is so cool!"_

 _Boom._

* * *

 _"Chloe... look out..."_

 _"What the fuck?!"_

* * *

The can hits the bottom of the machine and knocks me out of my memories. I rub a headache away as I bend down reaching for the can. Lack of sleep for weeks on end, and these thoughts that just won't go away. How can it be anyone's fault but mine?

I pop the tab the moment I have the root beer in hand. The soda explodes all over me and I drop the can in surprise. It must've been much more shaken up then I realized. The sound of the can crashing against the floor is louder than I expected, and it only makes the moment worse. My heart is racing again. I keep expecting to see him walking out of the shadows, calling my name. I keep expecting the sound of gunfire, or to fall to the sensation of a needle in my neck. Right now, it's getting difficult to breathe. Where is he? Where is he?

I look up at the sound of the dormitory door opening. It takes me a moment to blink away the vision of him to see Victoria standing there, evidently sneaking in. She pauses the moment she sees me. I can imagine the sight. Strange, quiet Max Caulfield who was somehow involved in the death of three teens and the incarceration of a beloved local teacher, standing covered in soda alone in the middle of the night. My eyes are wide. My heart an aimless beating drum in my breast. I try to calm my breath as I bend down to pick up the can. Maybe she won't see any more of me if I make myself small and unnoticeable again, like the ghost I used to be before-

Before everything.

There are footsteps, Victoria's. She's walking passed me and to the vending machine. She swipes her card smoothly and presses buttons. As the machine does it's thing, I can feel her eyes on me. I'm picking up the now empty can and evaluating the soda all over the floor. I know that Samuel will mop over everything in the morning, but soda is sticky and this mess could be hazardous for other night owls.

Knowing I'll need more than what I have on hand, I toss the can into a green recycling bin and head to the bathroom to grab some paper towels. Victoria's gone when I return. Five minutes later the mess is mopped up as best as it can be and I'm heading back to my room empty handed. Disappointment weighs heavy in my gut. It's such a little thing, the root beer. With everything that has happened lately though, somehow it's the little things that pull me down the most. It's as if everything in this life is against me and nothing can go right.

* * *

There's a can of root beer sitting outside of my door when I wake up the next morning.

It doesn't explode in carbonation when I pop the tab.

It's fizzy and bubbly, and most definitely not what I should be drinking at seven in the morning.

Dog, does it taste good though.

 _Thanks Victoria._


	3. Chapter 3

"Max Caulfield," a voice calls tiredly, yet fondly. It's familiar. I've been avoiding her for far too long now. When I turn around, it's to see Joyce standing there. Madsen is next to her. He eyes me suspiciously until Joyce murmurs something to him. Then he nods, kisses her on the cheek, and walks away. Joyce and I are standing across from each other now. It's awkward and strange. How do I face this woman who used to be like a second mother to me?

She makes the first move, walking over and gathering me into her arms. She hugs me tightly, comfortingly. I don't know what to do for a moment. I don't deserve her kindness. It's my fault that... Anyway, after a moment of inwardly struggling I return her embrace loosely.

"How are you doing, Joyce?" I ask, pulling away.

She fixes a stern look on her face, "I'd be better if you'd stop in at the Two Whales for breakfast one of these days." My eyes dance away. She's right. I haven't been back to the diner since "the incident". Since we both lost-

It's stupid, you know? But it feels like if I go to the places we used to go to together, talk to the people she used to talk to, do the things we used to do, it feels like I'm driving on the wrong side of the road and soon a car is going to crash right into me. It feels like I'm doing something wrong, and I know I'm doing something wrong. It's like if I make the choice to keep driving down that road instead of leaving that lane, there's a sense of foreboding and I know (I hella fucking know) that there's an impact coming. I just don't know when. Simultaneously it feels like part of me is missing, and it's an unholy catastrophe if I try to do anything without her. So I don't. I don't go to the beach, don't go to the Two Whales, don't talk to Justin and his gang, don't go to our fort, don't think about pirates, or hang out at the junk yard (where we reunited but because of me she died, twice), and I especially don't go to the light house. This means I definitely don't see Joyce, and Madsen I ignore or sidestep if he's around. If I go to my classes, that is. Sometimes I avoid my classes, too. Classes like Photography.

I also avoid the girl's bathroom.

And now that Joyce is here, standing in front of me with that all-knowing stare, I know that it's stupid to feel the way that I feel. To think the way that I did. In the end, I just neglect Chloe's mother (someone who sees me like a daughter to her) and just feel guilty. And stupid. Still doesn't change how I feel about the incoming crash. I know I can't stick around long.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I've just been busy. There's a lot of schoolwork that I missed and need to catch up on." I fight the itch to fidget with my hair and fix my eyes over Joyce's right shoulder.

She's watching me with calculating eyes. It's an obvious and flimsy excuse, yet true to a degree. If she questioned further I'd be able to back it up with examples from my various classes. It's not like I haven't used this excuse before. Still, standing before her I couldn't help comparing this conversation to one I'd have with someone I wasn't particularly close to but ran into while grocery shopping. It was as if we were never particularly close at all and Joyce was never like a second mother to me. It went against everything we used to be. But, I guess that's why it was everything we "used" to be.

The silence between us was heavy, and began to stretch on too long. I couldn't help looking back at Joyce. There was concern on her face. She opens her mouth to say something, but the bell rings. I'm filled with relief as I'm given the perfect excuse to escape.

"I've gotta go, Joyce," I say as I adjust the bag hanging on my shoulder. I give her an apologetic look as I say, "I'll see you around!"

Her expression tells me she doesn't believe me, but her words say "All right. Stop by the diner anytime, we need to have a chat! The food will be on me!" By then, I'm already walking away. We both know how likely it is to see her again.

For now, the crash has been avoided.

* * *

I ignored the fact that in my escape from one potential catastrophe I was walking towards another. I didn't always avoid my classes. Specifically, my Photography class.

Walking into the familiar room, I took my seat at the back. My classmates stared at me and whispered to each other, but I pretended not to notice. My focus was on the blank notebook page in front of me. It was safer to look at than anything else in the room. Everything else reminded me of my nightmares, of my choice, of Chloe, of the world bleeding in my vision as my flashbacks brought me back again and again and again and- and most of all, looking at anything other than this very blank notebook page in front of me reminded me of _him_. Of the monster who did this to me. To Chloe. To Victory and Kate and countless other girls. All victims.

When the familiar rage and panic and breathlessness fills my lungs, I realize it's time to change the topic of my thoughts. Now is not the time for a panic attack or flashback.

"Max? Are you paying attention?" the substitute teacher asks. So far Blackwell hasn't found a permanent solution to fill _his_ shoes. The substitute's a woman, for now, because they somehow had the idea that a woman would make the students (the victims) more comfortable and would seem less dangerous. Max knows how time works by this point. How various parallels work, universes. How the slightest butterfly can cause the fiercest storms. In other words, she knows by now not to trust _anyone._ Least of all herself. She knows by now what kind of choices she, herself, is capable of. Jefferson isn't the only monster. "Max?" the teacher calls again.

"Yes, sorry," I say. "What were you saying?"

"I asked the class which they think is the best medium for photography, digital or chemical, and to explain why. Please try to pay more attention."

"Yes ma'am," I agree, sitting up straighter and attempting to look more aware. It's not long before the teacher's droning on again and I'm lost again in my thoughts. This happens a lot now. Not for lack of trying, but I'm not sure if I can't really find it in myself to care about the class or if my brain just isn't wired towards the art anymore. It would suck, since photography has been a huge part of me for so long, and yet I can't quite find the same motivation I used to. What's the point if I can't see the world anymore? Not in the same colors or form or beauty? It's not the same. Where are the moments? I think they've been passing me by.

And over in the corner of the classroom, standing still just as I am, is the shadow of the man who might never stop haunting me. The world is passing him by, too. The difference is, that ghost lets it happen. With me, it's as if I have no choice. I'm just this way. I'm just haunted.

I've never even bothered learning the substitute's name. Perhaps I should have with the amount she focuses on me.

"Max, what type of photography will you be focusing on for your project?" the substitute asks.

I furrow my brows in confusion, snapping out of my thoughts and trying to ignore the shadow in the corner. I know no one else can see him. "I'm sorry, what?"

The teacher waves towards the rest of the class, "The final project that you and the rest of the class will be working on either individually or in small groups. It'll be consisted of a series of photos, all pertaining to a certain type or focus of photography. I was wondering if you already had an idea, since you yet again seemed to be day dreaming in my class." She folds her arms and gives me an encouraging look, "Care to share?"

"I, uh, actually I-"

"Yes, Ms. Solo. We already have some ideas." I immediately look over towards Victoria, who imitated the teacher's posture by folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. She gave me a look as if to say, _go along with it,_ before looking back at the teacher smugly.

"Well, then," the substitute begins. "I look forward to seeing what you two come up with. Is anyone else going to be working in a group?"

* * *

"Max- Maxine, wait!" Victoria calls after me when the class ends. I'm already halfway through the doors of the building, thinking about where I could hide away today, when she caught up to me. She grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

"What do you want?" I ask, wanting nothing more than to leave.

She rolls her eyes at my tone and fixes her blonde hair around her ear. "You know, now that we're partners we really do need to think up ideas for the final project."

"Can't we do that some other time?"

"No, Maxine, because I'm not going to slack on something that's going towards fifty percent of my grade." Victoria grabs my hand and starts pulling me towards the dorm. "I covered your ass in class, Selfie Hoe. You owe me."

I scrunch up my nose as she pulls me along, "Speaking of, why did you even do that? I could've handled it."

She snorts and sarcastically states, "Yeah, it sure seemed like you were handling it fan-fucking-tastically."

"No really," I say, pulling us to a stop. We're standing now in the middle of the sidewalk. "Why did you help me?"

Victoria looks me in the eye for a moment, expression unreadable. There's a distinctive tug on her lips, a barely noticeable frown, before she wipes it away with another roll of her eyes. "Let's go, Caulfield. We've got work to do." This time when she doesn't answer my question, I let it go.

It isn't until we're back at the dorms and walking towards her room that I realize we're still holding hands.


End file.
